Over Coffee
by In Pieces
Summary: "You are the Winter Soldier." James glanced at me and followed my gaze to his arm. He didn't bother to cover it up. "Was." He replied. Slight Bucky/OC
1. Chapter 1

There was a soothing quality about seeing the different shades of brown paint and the throngs of people walking by from my position at the counter as the day passed by and the strong smell of coffee became slightly weakened by the sweet notes of vanilla, perpetuating a balance between the contrasting smells.

Although, even if the aroma was something I could never get tired of, it wasn't a job I was overly fond of. I was well aware that I could be doing something else with my time instead of faking a smile and preparing coffee with ridiculous names to try to make a difference with the traditional and simple names that other coffee chains had even if he used the same ingredients and coffee beans that the others. But, this was what it all came down to: a broke girl trying to make a life in New York and failing, giving her no chance but to take the first job at hand that required no experience.

Rain was pouring outside, providing an almost inaudible and rhythmical sound that made a perfect harmony with the soft classical music that played from the speakers placed at the corners of the coffee shop, and a remarkable image as droplets cascaded down the windows and pooled momentarily on the window frame before continuing on their way below.

I sighed slightly as I brought my warm cup of coffee to my lips and took a long sip, savoring the sweet taste of Irish cream and the unhealthy amount of sugar I had stirred in there. Rain always seemed to make days longer.

The little bell above the door rang as a customer stepped into the coffee shop, successfully capturing my attention and the attention of the young man with headphones in one of the tables at the northeast corner of the shop, who merely glanced up for scarce seconds before continuing typing on his laptop.

The man was soaking wet, and as he looked around his footsteps left a mood mark on the white floors, almost making me cringe when I thought about how difficult it was going to be to clear that up later on once it dried. I didn't know if it was the rain that made his clothes have a certain look of dirtiness to them that made the man look unkempt or perhaps it was the baseball cap and the stubble of a beard on his face.

The way his eyes darted back and forth from the photographs on the walls to the tables and menu made me feel slightly uneasy, customers usually came to the counter and stare at the menu and murmured over their breath the state of the place. This man didn't. He was assessing the place from the moment he walked in, from the door behind me to the big paneled windows at the front and side.

"Good afternoon." I greeted and forced a smile that I wanted to believe was pleasant.

"This used to be a bar." The man said as he walked towards the counter, his gaze darted around for a last time before he focused on me. There was something about it that made me feel small, perhaps it was the harshness of his eyes or the serious expression plastered on his face.

"The original owner passed away around fifteen years ago and left the business to his younger son; he didn't know how to manage the business, the quality went downhill and the bar decayed until he decided to sell the place three years ago." I made a pause, before adding. "Such a shame, really."

He didn't agree nor disagree.

"We have pending coffee in case you're interested." I stated after a small period of silence.

"What?"

I pointed to the small chalkboard resting against the cash register with several crappy drawings of cups and watched his eyes shift towards it. "People pay for coffee they don't consume so when someone in need comes they can get free coffee. So if you want something warm right now feel free to cross it with that piece of chalk over there." I motioned with my hand to the small yellow box containing different colors of cheap chalk.

He returned his gaze back at me before looking up to the menu above my head. If anything, he seemed displeased by it. "I want regular coffee." He reached over his pants pocket and pulled out a 50 dollar bill on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

"All-American." I mumbled the silly name and turned towards the coffee pot. "Small?" The annoying sound of one of the wooden chairs being dragged across the floor was the reply he gave me. I took it as a yes.

He was there for two, sipping on already cold coffee and staring out the window. He'd frowned when I commented that we had Wi-Fi available and had the password at hand. Maybe he was an old-fashioned kind of guy. You never knew, especially in New York; I've seen way too much people on the last few months I've been here to still be surprised every once a while.

But he had something that made me want to ask questions even if I could tell by his attitude that he probably didn't want to hear me talk.

Noticing the lack of work and using my willpower to keep my mouth shut, I opted for a simpler solution to satisfy my aching curiosity by looking up online a trustworthy newspaper. It wasn't what I wanted to know at the time, but it was something that would keep my mind busy.

It appeared that reporters still couldn't get enough of what happened two weeks ago with SHIELD and some organization called HYDRA and all their dirty little secrets leaked for the world to see with a judging eye. I saw the conclusion of the court's trial against Black Widow on television and boy, that woman had guts.

Harassing Captain America became a sort of hobby around, but chasing the poor man while he was simply going out for a run seemed tasteless; although more than one was secretly pleased with all his photographs, myself included.

With a small smile on lips I clicked another link on the recommended news at the bottom on the page and frowned as I stared at the slightly familiar face on the main picture.

'Captain America's attacker was identified as The Winter Soldier.' The title read, and bellow was a clear picture of a man dressed all in black with a glistening metal arm carrying an assault rifle. Fear invaded my body as I read the article and realized that I might have served coffee to the damn Winter Soldier, an assassin that tried to kill Captain America -and, by the pictures the media was able to get from Captain America at the hospital, almost succeeded-.

My mind immediately thought about calling the cops – the few ones that might still be active after the whole mess-, but did I really want to get into that mess? Something told me that they wouldn't believe me and would just take my words as some sort of treason or just a sick joke. Not to mention the Winter Soldier wouldn't be pleased by my actions and probably would put a bullseye on my head.

The man's empty cup was placed on the counter; frightening me and making me jump slightly. I let out a nervous laugh as I placed my phone on my side and took the cup. Our eyes met, and my fear intensified when his eyes moved from mine to the screen on my cellphone that still had his face plastered in it.

If he believed my first act, I'm sure the dilation of my pupils didn't go unnoticed. Not with a man like him.

He said nothing and walked away.

I wasn't followed home by the end of my shift, a bullet didn't strike me in the head while I was asleep and no mysterious car tried to kidnap me in broad daylight the next day. I thought I was being paranoid and perhaps the coffee guy was just a random guy.

I saw him for the second time four days later.

I forced a smile and a cheerful greeting when I saw him walk through the door.

This time, his eyes didn't dart across the room and I could notice the black circles underneath them indicating a lack of sleep.

He asked for regular coffee and drank it black as he read a newspaper he brought. The thing looked old and flimsy and he turned down my offer of something a little more up to date.

And, even if the day was significantly busy, I caught myself several times staring at the lone man sitting alone in one of the tables of the corner, sipping coffee with a frown on his face.

He didn't look like a killer; he looked confused. Broken.

"What's your name?" I asked him one evening when we were the only ones at the café; more and more I found him wandering inside and ordering the same kind of coffee while sitting at the same place with a newspaper or an old book. For a moment, I feared he would ignore my question, but he lowered his newspaper to face me completely.

"James." It took him a moment to say it. The way the name rolled off his tongue sounded foreign both to him and me as far as I could tell.

"I'm Madison. Want a refill on that?"

James wasn't an avid talker, or at least not with me. He spent most of his time reading, and guessing by the headlines of the newspapers, old magazines and other reading material he bought with him, he was a sort of avid fan of history, especially regarding World War II.

As time passed, I made a theory that he took a personal endearment to the location and just didn't care too much about coffee.

* * *

James never really talked much but sometimes, when he did and if I was lucky, he'd mention tidbits of information about himself.

"A jukebox used to be there," James motioned to his left and I nodded, indicating that I was paying attention as I took a sip of my latte. "I remember they used to play Glen Miller's records all day."

_ I remember_ was the keyword he always used.

He remembered an apartment complex in Brooklyn that was destroyed recently.

He remembered a Stark. Not Tony Stark, Howard, the one that was in a car accident. James frowned for a moment and then said that no, it was no accident, it was staged.

He remembered he used to be in the Army.

He remembered thick needles on his arm.

It all came to him slowly in a painful realization in the course of the following months. It took time for me to realize that James wasn't like the others and not in a corny sense; he had ghosts that pestered him restlessly and demons that whispered far too many things on his ears.  
Slowly but surely, his internal walls were starting to collapse. James once said he did things he wasn't proud of, and having to bear with the burden of remembering the exact details about them was something he was desperately striving for yet wanted them to be imaginary.

Every now and then James visited me in the mornings in my apartment. He never stayed for too long for reasons he never spoke about, and I found myself cherishing the odd man's company even more as time passed.

There was something about him that I just could put my finger on.

That, until I accidentally discovered what it was. I never asked why he wore long sleeved shirts and gloves even the weather was warm, thinking that he probably had some sort of skin condition he didn't want to talk about, but the truth was far more gruesome than that.

It had been a simple movement he'd made as his hands reached to rest on his knees and the sleeve of his jacket pulled back slightly from his arm for me to catch a glimpse of the metal replacing where flesh should be.

I felt my pulse quicken when I realized the foolish mistake I made by even letting him in on the first place. I was right the first time I saw him.

Arm prosthesis just weren't supposed to look like that.

"I know who I am now."

His words caught me off guard and I took a deep breath to listen carefully to his words. "What do you mean?" My voice came out surprisingly calm even if I was ready to flee at the slightest change I got.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." He said. His voice no longer had the uncertainty that appeared when he first told me his name and there was a certain determination on his face that I haven't seen on him before. "I was a tool they didn't bother to name."

"You are the Winter Soldier."

James glanced at me and followed my gaze to his arm. He didn't bother to cover it up. "Was."

* * *

I didn't hear from him in a while, but I saw his face was all over the local newspapers. After all, seeing Captain America cheerfully hanging out with the man that tried to kill him was an oddity that reporters were not going to ignore.

James looked different. Maybe it was because of his now short hair and clean-shaven face or because this was the first time in almost a year that I saw him at ease, and I dared to say content. Those pictures showed far more than he had ever said to me and, in all honesty, I couldn't complain about it.

The little bell above the café's door jingled and I looked up in reflex, feeling a soft smile form on my lips.

"Good afternoon." This time the words didn't leave my mouth in fake politeness. "You look good, James."

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "Thanks."  
Even the way he walked seemed different, the stiffness disappeared from his gaze and I realized that, finally, the man standing in front of me was the James that was hidden beneath the Winter Soldier's carefully molded façade.

Change suited him well.

* * *

This was originally meant to be a one shot, but I've decided to add another chapter. I'll try to upload it shortly.

Disclaimer: Captain American and its characters belong to Marvel.


	2. Chapter 2

The stubble was forming again on his face and he'd let his hair grow significantly long, it would probably reach up to the lobe of his ears if he wore it the same way he did before and not slicked back.

James limited his actions to simply sit down in what I had now playfully claimed was his table and stare out the window. In the last month someone –presumably Steve Rogers, even if the man was still adapting to technology or hell, maybe someone else from the gang- provided him with a tablet that he made a habit of carrying around. He read and read file after file that was leaked, trying to soak up as much information as he could about the world that he was deprived from and about himself.

I tried to ignore the cracks and missing pieces of plastic from where he held the tablet with too much force with his left arm or the cracking sounds I could hear echoing through the café when those small incidents happened.

He frowned every time I wrote down the day's password on the bottom of his receipt, deeming it a useless antic; someone taught him to steal Wi-Fi passwords and he offered to teach me how in exchange of a cup of coffee with a slight smirk on his lips one day.

Today, he wasn't in the mood to talk but still managed to come here.  
He usually came in the afternoons and left before it got dark, but today was the exception. The sunset occurred at around seven, and at eight o'clock the little bell above the door rang twice and James walked straight to his seat without even acknowledging my presence. I thought that, perhaps, he didn't want to talk but felt the need to do so…Or he simply was overly fond of the location.

I prepared an All-American with an extra shot of espresso and left it in front of him, watching his eyes shift from the window to the steam coming out from the mug that emitted a bitter aroma with an ashy undertone thanks to dark roasted coffee beans.

I dragged one of the chairs off the ground and took a seat in front of him, straightening my khaki apron in the process and quickly glancing around the café to see if anyone needed assistance at the time. The few customers that were inside were far too busy having joyful conversations or mesmerized by the screens of their laptops and cellphones to pay attention to the barista leaving the station.

Focusing back to James tired face I let out a small sigh. "You look terrible," It was a bold statement and, if he took it as an insult, his expression gave nothing away. "What's wrong?"

Slowly, he took the coffee cup with his right hand and let me see clearly the emotions on his face. He was frowning yet it wasn't a result of anger, it resembled more the state he was first in when I met him a few months ago: confusion, remorse and adding to that, was a touch of disappointment as he pursed his lips slightly before getting the mug to his lips.

"I had a relapse." He finally said as the cup clinked against the table's wooden surface when he placed it down. "They wanted to run tests on my brain to see if there was anything implanted. Something triggered memories in the hospital and I broke the doctor's arm and choked him when he tried to arrange the machine."

I concealed my surprise with a sympathetic smile, knowing better than to ask if the doctor was dead.

There were many things that I didn't knew about James, and some that I particularly would like to forget, but the sorrow he was feeling at the time was honest; he was a troubled man trying to pick up the pieces of his life. And unfortunately, he hadn't run with too much luck with that.

"How long ago was it?"

"Yesterday."

"So you ran away?"

He shook his head. "I didn't run away," His tone was harsh and, when he noted my raised eyebrow he exchanged it with an odd determination that sounded like he wanted to reassure himself. "I did what I had to do." He brought the mug back to his lips, savoring the harsh taste as he gripped the handle tightly.

"He lost you once, James," I glanced at his hand and then back to his eyes. "Don't do that to him again, he's doing everything he can to take care of you."

"I need to protect Steve from myself."

"You're not a monster."

He leaned forward slightly, glowering. "I almost killed a man that was trying to help me without hesitating, I felt nothing when my hands were around his throat and he was trying to defend himself." He paused, and I realized that my heart was beating erratically as thoughts about the possible outcomes of his rage flashed through my mind. "Parts of the Winter Soldier still live within me."

I made a pause and fought to hide my fear by focusing on his eyes, darting from one to the other. "You're James Buchanan Barnes now, aren't you?"

He frowned and then, with a confused expression on his face, nodded.

I leaned against the table, trying to show confidence through my body language even if the situation made me feel slightly uneasy. "Start acting like it."

Once James got an idea into his mind it was difficult try to coax him out of it but occasionally there were times that, if someone's words were carefully said with a certain edge, it would make him think twice and hopefully lead him another way.

And today was the day he needed a pat on the back and a hand on his back to guide him.

James said he wanted to spend the night in a hotel downtown, deeming that taking a cab back to Washington was out of the question for the time being. He said he wanted to sort things out, sift the memories he had form the incident the day before to localize the source that triggered his memory. I couldn't let him wander alone, not in the state he was in.

I could hear my keys clashing against each other as I rummaged through the contents of my handbag to open my apartment's door. The light under my neighbor's door shone brightly in the barely lit hallway and I was thankful that he didn't go out late at night. He was a stubborn elderly man that was still trying to cope with all the happenings that ensued in the city, and knowing that my guest for the night was the Winter Soldier wouldn't serve him well at all.

With a sigh, I unlocked the door and opened it, frowning when I heard the annoying creaking sound it made but feeling in no mood to oil the hinges. James didn't seem to be bothered by it.

I sighed as I took the sight of the messy apartment. I barely had time to clean up the kitchen properly, so the living room was a mess; a light layer of dust was on top the furniture and, decorating the coffee table in front of the loveseat that faced the television, were a range of dirty plates, mugs and glasses along with crumbled colorful wrappings of granola bars and potato chips.

At least the apartment smelt like a piercingly sweet arrangement of flowers, courtesy of the so-called spring aroma of the automatic air freshener in the corner of the living room.

"Sooner or later they'll know you're here." I stated the obvious as I stepped aside to let James in before locking the door behind me.

"They won't hurt you, if that's what you're worried about." James stated as he let his gaze roam the familiar space.

"I'm concerned about _you_."

"About what they could do to me or what I could do to you?"

"They are not going to do anything to you, and if they did it would go as far as a slap on the wrist, they didn't put a bullseye on your head." I turned my back to him as I walked towards the bedroom to fetch a few covers and pillows. The small closet in the bedroom had nothing that didn't smell like dust from being stored there for a long period of time, so James would have to settle with the flowered-pattered pillow I had as a spare and a monochromatic cover that I took from my bed. "And I know you'll do nothing; I trust you." I remarked on my way back to the living room and I shoved what I was carrying into his arms.

He tossed the pillow I gave him in a corner of the loveseat and folded the cover in half before placing it on top of the cushions and taking a seat in the middle.

"I remember that Steve and I used to put the couch cushions on the floor and use them as beds when we were kids." Lucidity was something that he was starting to regain bit by bit; from what I saw –and heard later on- he had his ups and downs. One day he was fine and the next one he would be oblivious of his location and sneer in Russian.

He turned down my offer of cereal or corned beef hash that I'd cooked for lunch, claiming that he wasn't hungry; he also shook his head when I offered milk or water. He accepted a bottle of beer though.

At around twelve I retreated to my room, locking the door behind me. With a sigh, I sat on the edge of the bed and got my cellphone out of one of the pockets of my jeans. I scrolled the contact list with my index finger until I found the name I was looking for nearly at the end of the list and glanced at the locked bedroom door.

I'd turned off the lights before stepping into my room, and by now I couldn't even hear the faint sound of the TV playing late night infomercials, but that couldn't give me the certainty that James was asleep. His footsteps were light considering the built of the man, which probably was a result of the years of training; no one would like an assassin that was unfamiliar with the word stealth.

I repeated on my head over and over again that it was for his sake before I touched the phone-shaped icon on the screen and waited for the dialing tones. His phone was turned off.

I heard the automated voice said that the user was unavailable to take my call and, after I heard the familiar tones indicating I could start talking, I repressed the urge to end the call.

"Captain, this is Madison Hobbs, the girl from New York. James is here with me and he's alright, he just wanted some time to sort things out because of the incident. He's lucid, but refused to eat and so far he only has coffee and alcohol on his stomach, but if he's still here tomorrow morning I'll try to make him eat breakfast…We'll be here all day tomorrow in case you want to pick him up." I ended the call and tossed the cellphone beside me, hoping I had made the right decision. It was only then, when I saw the phone discarded facing the covers, that I realized that a knot had formed in my stomach and I had no idea if it was a result of anxiety or guilt.

I woke up as rays of sunshine filtered through the dim curtains and hit me in the face, forcing me to open my eyes and regret the action. With a grimace, I shielded my eyes with the palm of my hand and, sighing, adopted a sitting position.

There was no noise coming from the living room and that meant that either James was fast asleep or gone. I grabbed my cellphone from the nightstand and clicked a small button on the upper side and noticed with disdain that it was six thirty. I took that as a cue to get out of bed.

I stopped when I reached the door and unlocked it, gripping the handle with hesitation. I just knew that if James had snuck out during the night it would feel like a low blow; I didn't expect him to stay, not when he had a riot on his mind and pretty much said he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but I sincerely hoped he did.

I figured that, perhaps, if I got used to the idea of picturing an empty couch with the cover pooling into the ground it wouldn't be as shocking.

I took a deep breath and opened the door, noticing a mop of brown hair standing out from the cream colored sofa. I carefully walked over the couch, trying to make minimal sound with my bare feet. Even if I tried, I knew that I couldn't wipe the small smile that formed on my lips.

He'd taken off his jacket and perched it against the recliner next to the couch, which was far too small for his height, making him sleep in an uncomfortable fetal position with his feet resting on top of the armrest. He looked at ease, serene, and I found slightly amusing the way his hair dangled across his face in a frizzy mess.

His chest heaved in and out rhythmically, moving the cover slightly; I feared that it would soon fall off his body since at least half of it had slid down from his upper body, allowing me to stare freely at his metal arm. Somehow, I thought the first thing he'd be inclined to do in his recovery would be to get rid of the red star on his arm.

I shook my head slightly at my rudeness and grabbed the empty bottle of beer from the nightstand to throw it into the garbage can when I noticed from the corner of my eye slight movement coming from the sleepy form beside me.

James awoke with a blank expression on his face and a wary look on his eyes. I slowly left the bottle back on the table, letting him assess the situation accordingly. His eyes quickly darted across the room before he reached under the covers to something that I couldn't see and that struck a panic alert on my body.

"I'm Madison and you're in my apartment in New York," My words seemed to have no effect on him as he realized that whatever he was looking for couldn't be found on him. "You said you were going to spend the night here, remember?"

Remember was always a triggering word.

He frowned and I found my fingers twitching at the intensity of his stare. The movement placed him slightly on edge but, slowly, he was able to hold it down as he took in his surroundings, letting the tension on his muscles slip into a comfortable state.

"Are you alright?"

James nodded. "Sorry."

"Want some coffee?"

This time, he didn't turn down my offer of scrambled eggs with a side of bacon and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

I left my fork down when I heard a knock on the door and gave James an apologetic smile that he returned with smirk before leaving the table. I checked the peephole and make sure it was the guest I was expecting before opening the door and stepping aside.

James wasn't too pleased when he saw him.

He agreed to go in peace with Steve Rogers after the star spangled hero convinced him that they could work it out with the therapist James was seeing. He'd been unsure at first, but he had no reason to mistrust his friend's words.

Thankfully James didn't took it as a personal attack that I've recurred to Steve for help, but that didn't mean that he was grateful with the course of action I took.

At one point, James decided he wanted to move to Brooklyn and Steve obliged with his request. For a couple of months the Captain lived with him in a decent apartment complex until work got in the way and he figured that being in Washington suited him better than living in Brooklyn. James didn't seem to mind. After all, if Rogers didn't visit him on the weekends they could still see each other at the end of James' therapy sessions and Steve always welcomed his company with open arms.

At first, James went to a therapist four times a week, then gradually the numbers lowered to once a month and ultimately he decided he didn't require that kind of assistance anymore.

Now that he lived closer, I saw him more often sitting in the northeast table of the café, still drinking the same kind of coffee and turning down my offers to try something new. Little by little things started to change: he got rid of the stubble but kept his hair long, sometimes tying it back to a low ponytail, he started to discard the long sleeved clothing and gloves in public and, in the end, if someone asked about his name he'd say Bucky, Bucky Barnes.

And if that didn't mean that he was alright now, then I don't know what would.

* * *

Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: Captain America and its characters belong to Marvel.


End file.
